


Unfinished Drawings

by Estrella3791



Series: Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020 [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Awake The Snake, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estrella3791/pseuds/Estrella3791
Summary: Awake the Snake but make it October and Crowley draws.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942321
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	Unfinished Drawings

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting as its own work.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale understands why Crowley wanted to nap until October. He does. He really does. He understands that the world is equatable to a garbage can on fire at the moment. He knows that it’s overwhelming and messy and unpleasant and the dear boy _deserves_ a months-long nap, really he does, but Aziraphale is sick and tired of baking and sick and tired of re-reading books and sick and tired of _not having Crowley around_.

Which is why he’s here, in Crowley’s flat, _technically_ without permission, but what was it Crowley had said after the Apocawasn’t that had been so overwhelmingly lovely?

“ _Mi casa es su casa, angel. Come over anytime._ ”

Ah, yes. That was it.

So he’s not _really_ here without permission. Sure, Crowley might not have meant to come over when he was sleeping. But _anytime_ means any time, and Aziraphale is here and he refuses to apologize.

Well, he might. Later. When he sees Crowley. But that’s not the _point_.

“My dear boy, are you in here?”

He’s a bit intimidated by the stark walls and empty majesticness of the flat, to be honest, but he feels a little more at home in the plant room. He spends a lovely few minutes complimenting the flora on their breathtaking beauty, but gets distracted when he hears a low rumble coming from down the hall. With a last “you’re growing _beautifully_ , darlings” he invites himself to take a walk down said hall to investigate the noise.

When he sees Crowley he stops, stock-still, in the doorway.

He’s sprawled out on top of the expensive-looking blankets, hair long and bright red against the black of his satin pillowcases. His mouth is open and he’s snoring, a rumbly sound, and Aziraphale’s heart is doing something very strange and melty in his chest. 

Suddenly, convincing Crowley to spend time with him seems a lot less important.

He’s not sure how long he spends in the doorway, feeling fond and soft, but it’s a substantial amount of time, because when he finally shakes himself out of the trance and takes himself out of Crowley’s apartment the shadows have grown very long indeed. 

Oh, he can’t go home now! 

(He could. He doesn't want to.)

So he heads back inside Crowley’s apartment and sets about making tea and having a good snoop. He feels a little guilty, but convinces himself that this is mischief and Crowley would be proud to have influenced an angel towards The Dark Side and so opening drawers and investigating the contents is okay.

Plus, he’s curious.

Mostly the drawers are empty, which is very discouraging, and the here-and-there snake-related knicknacks aren’t enough to keep Aziraphale motivated. He’s just decided to give up when he stumbles upon a treasure trove in the form of a cabinet in what seems to be Crowley’s office. 

It’s a sketchbook. 

He starts to open it and then gets squeamish and leaves it on top of the cabinet while he goes to make his tea.

This is different than a good old-fashioned snoop. This is… this is personal. And private. And something Crowley chose to hide away. It would be _horrible_ of him to go look at whatever is in that sketchbook. 

He’s never been a very good angel.

He takes his tea with him and settles down onto the floor, picking up the sketchbook and holding it reverently for a moment.

And then he opens it.

The very first page takes his breath away. It’s _him_.

It’s him, Aziraphale, in the silly white robes he was wearing when he was on apple tree duty. He stares, astonished at the skill, tracing a finger over the lines. It is _beautiful_. He had no idea that Crowley could draw like this. The demon has used charcoal, but somehow managed to get as much accurate detail as any photograph. 

He can’t seem to tear his eyes away, wondering what it means that he looks so impressive in it, so noble, but eventually he finds himself wondering what’s on the next page. 

_That_ punches the breath out of him, too.

They’re all drawings of him, he finds, as he turns the pages. Him in Mesopotamia, him in the ridiculous clothing of a British aristocrat in 1973 France, him smiling over the rim of a wine glass.

They’re beautiful. They’re amazing. They’re _incredible_. He can’t believe that they exist. 

He turns the pages slowly, drinking in Crowley’s art. It’s strange, to be seeing himself through the demon’s eyes. He’s… better, somehow, than he thinks he really is. Glorious. Beautiful, even.

Silly old snake.

He takes his time, savouring each picture, but at last he comes to the final page, on which is drawn…

_Oh, my_ , he thinks.

There he is, dressed in his usual getup, bowtie and all. He has his arm around someone’s waist, and is beaming at them in a way that looks decidedly besotted. The person beside him… well, there’s no face. It’s unfinished. But the lanky limbs, the practiced slouch… it’s Crowley.

His heart leaps in his chest.

_The dear boy_ , he thinks, closing the sketchbook and sliding it lovingly back into the drawer. _The ridiculous, dearest, most beloved demon._

He is so overcome by emotion that when he stands up he leaves his tea sitting on the floor. He pads down the hall to Crowley’s room.

Crowley is still snoring. 

Aziraphale wrings his hands, unsure of what to do.

“... Crowley?” he says quietly.

Crowley gives a snuffling grumble, flops over onto his stomach.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, more insistent.

“Mmmchghal,” Crowley mumbles into his pillow.

“Crowley!” says Aziraphale, and Crowley is suddenly sitting upright, having turned over and done something strange with his spine.

“Angel?” he asks, sounding very bleary and very surprised. Aziraphale’s insides feel bright and warm. 

“I found your sketchbook, dearest,” he whispers, afraid of Crowley’s reaction but unable to keep from saying it.

Ten thousand emotions fly across Crowley’s face at once, and then he falls backwards onto the pillow. 

“C’mere,” he says.

“I - my dear - ”

Crowley sits up again. 

“Come _here_ ,” he says, so demandingly that Aziraphale considers _not_ going over, just to make a point. 

But it’s Crowley, and he’s looking so sweet with his hair all mussed like that.

He makes his way to the side of the bed. 

“Lie down,” says Crowley, whose eyes have closed again. He sounds like he’s falling back asleep. 

“I - ” begins Aziraphale.

“Please?” says Crowley, and his eyes are open again and up close Aziraphale can tell that he’s nervous, that he’s overwhelmed, that he’s _scared_ of Aziraphale leaving.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale, and removes his shoes and socks. And coat. And bowtie. And trousers. And waistcoat. 

And then he’s climbing into Crowley’s bed in nothing but his undershirt and shorts, feeling quite scandalous indeed. 

No sooner has he gotten himself situated than Crowley is wrapping himself around him, arms and legs tangling with his own, head tucked into Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“ _Oh_ ,” gasps Aziraphale. “I - ” 

“Not good?” asks Crowley, trying desperately to sound casual and failing spectacularly.

“ _Very_ good,” says Aziraphale, and extricates his arms so he can wrap his own around Crowley. 

Crowley makes a noise that is shaky and quiet and decidedly overwhelmed, but burrows in closer. 

They lie like that for a moment, and Crowley’s breathing starts to even out.

“Oughtn’t we to… talk, or something?” asks Aziraphale presently, because it _can’t_ be as easy as this.

Crowley makes an sleepy annoyed noise.

“Yeah, s’pose we ought,” he says. “But ‘m too tired right now. Later.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. Crowley, despite his firm words, tenses up, nervous.

“Unless,” he starts nervously, “if you wanted to - ”

“No, darling,” says Aziraphale. Crowley squeaks at the epithet. “This is lovely.”

Crowley relaxes, and Aziraphale does, too, and within minutes Crowley is snoring gently in his ear again. Aziraphale closes his eyes and listens and, for the first time in his life, falls asleep.


End file.
